On Repeat: Bonus Edition

I couldn't decide between two tracks this week, so I'm going to talk about both. Conveniently, both fall into the category of lo-fi electro-buzz that I've been quite obsessed with lately. Similar to Best Coast last week, these two songs have humble origins but are so darn catchy that the risks they take add to the allure rather than alienate.

Sleigh Bells - Crown on the Ground

The shrieking guitar riff opening is a pretty good indication of what you can expect from Sleigh Bells. It just sounds DEAFENING, at any volume. Not 5 seconds after starting, an absolutely booming drum part stomps into the song and nearly shakes everything off the tracks. The song crackles and buzzes and vibrates in every note, sounding like a recording of a recording of a recording blasted through a blown-out stereo. Despite the rattling, the steady guitar swirls give this tornado of a song a center and direction. If it sounds a bit off-putting at first, give it another couple listens and you'll come around. I promise.

Royal Bangs - My Car Is Haunted

If Sleigh Bells are a bit too noisy for you, you'll be happy to hear that Royal Bangs exercise a bit more discretion. Not much though. Rather than place the bulk of the buzz on the drums, My Car Is Haunted fuzzes up the guitar instead, conceding the melody and hooks to the vocals. There's a frantic maraca, a cowbell that would make Bruce Dickinson proud and some post-apocalyptic lyrics referencing the 'age of lasers', an electric ocean' and 'ungodly heat'. I think a haunted car is the least of their problems.

She's Out Of My League

I see this poster every day on a massive billboard at off Exit 36 on Rte 93. I'm not interested in the film, but the subject matter brings to light a phenomenon that's near and dear to my heart.

Once in every man's life, he ensnares a woman whose beauty dwarfs his own so massively that he loses grasp on reality. It is the stuff of music montages and animated birds and dance troupes. It is a waking dream. That is, until you inevitably crash and burn and your heart becomes a chew toy for Bagheera.

My own such experience didn't have quite the harsh trajectory, but that's because I exploded into flames so quickly after takeoff that I scarcely realized I was flying. It's funny in retrospect, but at the time it was all I could do not to stare into the abyss.

During one of the first days of freshman year at UNH, we were introduced to our fellow Chemistry majors. These people would be in all of our classes and labs for the next four years, and we looked about what you'd expect a group of 18-year-old Chemistry students to look like. All of us except Tina*. Tina was breathtaking, a fact I verified with a friend of mine when I remarked "She is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen" and she did not refute it. I crushed on her like nobody's business. In the tide pool of freshman year, Chemistry majors didn't interact considerably, but Sophomore year when there were 10 of us in an 8AM Quantitative Analysis lecture, we got pretty cozy. Within said coziness and spurred mostly by pure boredom, rudimentary flirting developed. This usually consisted of me scribbling on her notes while our Geppetto doppelganger professor leafed through his notes at the board. This evolved into pen stealing and games of tic-tac-toe. Not traditionally effective tactics, but in a room full of SERIOUS nerds, strangely endearing.

By sheer blind luck (for me, not her), we both found ourselves without dates on Valentine's day, and for reasons I still don't comprehend, I finagled a movie date at her sorority house. I don't remember the movie, I didn't watch the movie. I remember kissing her and fireworks that made the Fourth of July look like a weenie roast. Walking with her later that evening, her arm in mine, I distinctly felt like Bob Dylan on the cover of The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan.

My friends were absolutely flabbergasted when I recounted this story, almost as much as I was. I felt like a Michael Jordan-Bono-James Dean-Ron Jeremy hybrid of awesome. I knew in the back of my mind that the clock was ticking, and that she probably was probably just lonely or rebounding off of a bad break-up or wasn't wearing her glasses when she puckered up, but nothing could bring me down. We spent more time together, this courting process culminating in an event that summarizes my complete boneheadedness better than I ever could.

One night, after a late movie, she invited me to stay over, which I obliged. Then, after a few hours of lying awake in her bed, I decided to go back to my dorm to get some sleep as we had a test the next day. I don't remember what I got on the test and whatever points I gained and whatever infinitesimal boost my GPA received from those 3 hours of sleep I got in my own bed are beside the point. When a girl asks you to spend the night, you spend the night. The whole night. It doesn't matter if you are on the floor, or in a shoebox in the closet. You can't sleep, so be it, but don't even think about going home.

Shortly after this transpired, we both went home for Spring Break week, and I effectively snuffed out the embers of the relationship by asking for her address to send her flowers during vacation. I thought (and still think) it would be cute; she did not. And that was that. The end. Finito. I had no say in the matter.

In retrospect, it was a matter of time. I could not conceivably maintain the level of cool I had somehow convinced her I possessed. That realization did nothing to stave off the waves of self-pity I enjoyed the rest of the semester, but is comforting now. If you are reading this and you've never dated light years beyond yourself, buckle up and tighten your boots, because she is coming. You will not emerge unscathed, and you will need a pride transfusion, but for a few seconds it will be wondrous.


*Name has been changed. Obviously.

Hide the women and children (and PBR)

I'm growing a beard.

Allow me to rephrase.

I'm maintaining my facial hair.

What this entails to remains to be seen. It's been eleven days since my last go-round with my straight razor. Inspired by CMM's luscious* moustache, I decided to see what these little follicles can do. Much like Brad Pitt's probing question in Fight Club, I asked myself; 'How much can you know about yourself if you've never grown a beard?'. Growing a beard is a rite of passage. What if I could grow an incredible soul patch that would make Apollo Anton Ohno shave his off in shame? I owe it to humanity to try.

In my experience, there are two classes of men when it comes to facial hair. There are the men who could lose their razor for the better part of a month an no one would be the wiser**. They will remain nameless, but they know who they are. Then there are men whom ought to carry a Mach 3 in their pocket. You don't know which camp you fall into until you take the plunge. With that being said, I'm still not sure.

Here's the thing about facial hair. There's no rhyme or reason to it. So little in fact, that I've been trying to recount any childhood scalding incidents to explain the strip under my jaw that is inexplicably bare. It's filling in, but it was dicey for a while there and made we want to scrap the whole project. Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed.

Right now it's just itchy. I don't know if this goes away, but if it doesn't, I have a newfound respect for Zach Galifianakis. I try not to think about it. Also, it has a strange auburn hue to it, which is a relief, since I can't think of any variation on blond facial hair that didn't scream rapist or amphetamine addict. There are some benefits, which I honestly did not foresee.

Firstly, a moustache (or the makings of one) adds a level of gravity to anything you say. Maybe it's because everyone with a moustache looks like someone's dad, but I get the distinct impression that I am being taken seriously. Too seriously in most cases, since I'm usually about to fling a rubber band at them. A moustache is also the jackpot for non-verbal expression, allowing you to express despondence, fury, and confusion with subtle adjustments of your orbicularis oris.

I feel closer to the hipster community than ever before, but also closer to homeless, so we'll see how it shakes out. I'm not going to look like Pei Mei, Ron Swanson (above), or Al Swearengen***, but now I know could if I set my mind to it. That's the American Dream right there.

*This is the first and last time I will use this word to describe a non-food.

**Save for 3 inexplicably long hairs that only their girlfriend's notice.

***COCKSUCKA

Information Addiction

We can all agree that the internet has changed everything. Communication, entertainment, and research have each become incredibly more convenient since the advent of wi-fi. For better or worse, gone are the days of turning pages in encyclopedias, using a TV Guide, and mailing letters. However, when everything is at your fingertips and simply waiting for a URL to zing you off to sights unseen, the novelty of the little things is trampled. There are pleasures to be had in putting pen to paper, or aimlessly leafing through a dictionary. Now the experience been reduced to frantic Googling to secure the information you want as fast as humanly possible. The process has become so slight and so streamlined, that I've found myself reading entire articles and processing nothing.

This is partly due to impatience on my part. I've always considered myself an impatient person, and while I've had internet access nearly my entire life, dial-up internet imparts a degree of restraint on a developing mind. It wasn't until broadband internet and wi-fi became prevalent that my inner information glutton evolved. Today, I sigh when a Youtube video is longer than a minute long, and I read more box-scores than Op-Eds. I use Google Reader to aggregate interesting websites into a sickening buffet of information that I can consume as efficiently as possible. It is troubling, and I'm working on it.

Regrettably, blogging has probably exacerbated this phenomenon, but in many ways it forces me to focus and practice measured writing and pacing. At the same time, I have no such poise when thinking of things to write about. The whole thing resembles an ouroboros.

This restlessness is no longer an internet-contained phenomenon. I drive too fast, check my watch 20 minutes (and every subsequent 20 minutes) into a movie, and wonder out loud why anyone writes songs longer than 4 minutes. I have my phone set to check my email every fifteen minutes, stock quotes every hour, and software updates instantaneously. I'll probably never make a pot roast, a turkey, or any incarnation of slow-roasted barbecue. I rarely sleep more than 7 hours and I resent even sleeping that much.

I could argue that I'm simply interested in many things, and that there is no harm in that, which would be true if I was deriving as much pleasure out of these things as I should be. But I'm not, as the preceding paragraph has explained. So now I've established the problem, what steps am I taking to remedy it?

Well, for starter's I'm drinking tea. I'm also running a lot, and reading a lot (full chapter books!). When I do these things, I am doing only these things (mostly). This is in stark contrast to the normal cerebral whirlwind. I've done more crossword puzzles, and casually research Yoga. I've read philosophy to understand belief systems larger than myself and to gain perspective. Little things, but it's helping. Maybe I'll fall off the wagon and read Wikipedia until 3am, but I haven't been on hipinion today and I'm ok with that. That has to count for something.

Indie Band of the Week: Best Coast

Best Coast sounds like something that washed up on a California beach. Tossed around in the waves, mid-range frequencies are smoothed and softened, leaving only the sharp treble and the deep bass drone in tact. It's an interesting technique that draws favorable comparisons to the lo-fi sounds of The Beach Boys. The churning guitars of Sun Was High (And So Was I) mimic a distant lawn-mower, and Bethany Cosentino's vocals sound like she's caterwauling down a sewer pipe. Guitar riffs are blurred and loose, and Cosentino's melody sometimes makes me want to hide my stemware.

This would be a problem if the songs didn't hover around two minutes and the melodies didn't burrow themselves into my parietal lobe. The lyrics (barely amounting to more than a haiku) are repeated with a sincerity and warmth that shines through the distortion layered over them. After a string of EPs and singles, Best Coast is readying their debut LP for a 2010 release. Check out a fan video for Sun Was High (So Was I) below.    



 

The Adventures of Indoor Boy: Indoor Boy Gets a Flat

I have an irrational fear of parking too far away from the curb. This waking nightmare culminates in me walking out to my car to find a massive scrape along the length of my car and my side-view mirror dangling like a pinata. Maybe it's because SP's tires were slashed for no particular reason*. Another reason is the fact that LK drives a Toyota FJ Cruiser. If you haven't seen an FJ Cruiser, envision a feeder bus with a roof rack. Its a nice car to be sure**, but whenever I park across the street from it, I feel a bit uneasy.

To overcome this uneasiness, I've developed the foolhardy habit of nudging the curb when I park along the street, just to be absolutely sure that any buffoon screaming down Amsden St will have to go make a conscious effort to take out my mirror. Unfortunately, in the wintertime this usually means I can only open my door 3 inches before I meet a snow drift. Climbing out through your back seat is a small price to pay for this peace of mind. Until today.

Today*** I kissed the curb with a little extra vigor, and I knew it. I just knew it. Any lingering doubts were dashed when I opened my door and heard the unmistakable whisper of a dying tire. Knowing there was nothing to be done, I kicked it in a half-hearted attempt at euthanasia and went inside. After recruiting JL for a 'second opinion', he verified my suspicion. The tire was 'fucked'.  

Next came the humbling task of removing the lifeless rubber carcass and replacing it with something that would be better suited on a Power Wheel. For this I also recruited JL. After a moment of panic, we fortuitously discovered that the nice folks at Hyundai thoughtfully included a jack and a lug wrench (yes I had to look up the name of it). Maybe all car companies do this. I don't know. As I said, I've never had a flat. Due to my penchant for parking as close the curb as physically possible, jacking up the car was quite exciting.  JL and I tried about 5 different permutations of spinning the metal bar (all of which precipitated in scraped, bloody knuckles) before we (JL) found an efficient method. From here it was virtually a cake walk. If said cake has molten lava icing and you're barefoot.    

I Google Mapped a few tire places nearby and inched down Mass Ave, trying to convert 80kph (the maximum allowable speed on a spare tire****) to mph. It's 50, which is plenty fast on Mass Ave. However, once it becomes clear that all the tire stores on Mass Ave are closed and the one dude you were able to catch before he locked up directs you to Waltham (down RTE 2, Speed Limit 55), 50mph becomes a bit of a handicap. I had the presence of mind to ask him about the limitations of the donut before I went on my way. The exchange went something like this:

"Is it safe to take RTE 2 on a spare tire?"

"Compared to the 45 or whatever they say? Yeah. Heck, I've driven 80 on donuts before and nothin' happened."

Pause. At this point he presumably realized that telling me to drive double the recommended speed might constitute a liability on his part. So he quickly added:

"Well, I mean, don't be stupid about it"

This did little to assuage my fears. This is where I started to wonder if anyone had ever gotten a flat tire on their spare tire, and if that would be sufficient cause to call out of work for the rest of the week.

As it was, I drove like my Nana for 3 miles down RTE 2. Once arriving at the Tire Shop, I began playing the game of 'Don't-Let-Them-Know-How-Clueless-You-Are', a favorite past-time of mine. A portly gentleman recommended a Goodyear tire for $120. Knowing nothing about tires but street-smart (or paranoid) enough to know not to take the first suggestion. I coolly stammered: 

"Do I have any other options?"

In retrospect, that's like holding up an apple at Market Basket and asking if they have any other fruit. Of course they have other tires. He patiently listed off three other tires, one for $97, the rest considerably more. He then proceeded to enter lecture-mode where he referenced other tires that he may-or-may-not have "in the back". All of these sounded like they had been banished to the Island of Misfit Tires. Of course, playing the safety card is a slam-dunk so I bought the $97 Uniroyal blah-blah-blah and some mustachioed Carhartt-model named Mike threw it on my car while I read Sports Illustrated.

I made an afternoon of it and went to D'Angelos and Trader Joe's afterwards. I tend to do this when I spend an absurd amount of money I wasn't planning on spending. I go to D'Angelo's and pretend I ate a fancy dinner and go to Trader Joe's and pretend I spent $100 on groceries and Voila! Instead of spending $100 curb-stomping my car, I spent $100 on necessities. That's much easier to swallow. And what did I do when I parked on Amsden St again? Parked a cool 3-feet away from the curd, and looked up how much new side-mirrors cost.   

*I contest that he was parked too far from the curb. Or maybe SS's ex-neighbors are passive agressive psychopaths.

** It even has an inclinometer! Very helpful if gravity becomes suspended on the way to the grocery store.

***Literally 8 minutes after seeing a shredded tire on 93S and remarking "I've never had a flat. How dumb do you have to be to not run over metal shit?"

****OR SO THEY SAY

This Week In Inexplicably Popular: How Low Can You Go - Ludacris

I'd like to use this blog a forum to publically put to rest the Chipmunkification of hip-hop music. If you haven't heard 'How Low Can You Go', count your blessings and don't press play on the embedded video at the bottom of this page. If you have, you can surely sympathize. I've never been a fan of Ludacris. His songs have always played to the lowest common denominator in hip-hop, and while this has resulted in unprecedented crossover success, you'd have a hard time finding anyone to argue the merits of Area Codes and Move Bitch in 2010. In fact, save for aging frat dudes, you'd have a hard time finding anyone to not cringe upon hearing the opening bars. Meanwhile, 15-year-old 'Juicy' brings down the house in every club at 2AM (see Saturday night).

Well, Ludacris has done it again. 'How Low Can You Go' was certified platinum last week as you can see above. I love watching him accept the award in a studio surrounded by middle-aged white record executives trying hard to look comfortable. Nobody gets platinum records anymore, so Ludacris is the record label messiah. I'm reminded of 'The Skit' from Wale's fantastic Mixtape About Nothing. That is the current state of affairs in hip-hop crossover music. 'How Low Can You Go' is 2010's 'Crank Dat Flying Squirrel'.

I don't mind Kanye West does it. Heck, most of College Dropout is drenched in the chipmunk effect (see Through The Wire) and I LOVE that record. but the difference between Kanye and Ludacris, is that Kanye is sampling legitimate soul songs and Ludacris has no such artistic integrity. Couple this absurd effect with lyrics that would make Biggie blush and you have a recipe for a platinum record. You also have one more thing that Fox News and middle-aged women will reference whenever they talk about what's wrong with America.

Review: Jackie Brown

Having made quick work of Elmore Leonard's 'Rum Punch', I thought I'd take a couple hours to watch Quentin Tarantino's Jackie Brown to see how the two compared. If you aren't aware, Jackie Brown is QTs adaptation of Rum Punch for the silver screen and his only adapted screenplay. I've been a huge Tarantino fan since seeing Pulp Fiction for the first time nearly ten years ago, and his early passion for crime-centric screenplays is a big part of the reason I decided to check out Rum Punch (and make everyone in TBC read it as well)

In my opinion, Jackie Brown is Tarantino's most underrated film (Death Proof is a close second). While it retains his ear for dialogue and vibrant characters, it is decidedly less-stylized and has as linear a plot as you're likely to find in a Tarantino flick. Much like Pulp Fiction before it, Tarantino displays an uncanny eye for acting talent. Just as he revitalized the career of John Travolta as Vincent Vega, QT makes an inspired choice here by plucking Pam Grier (of 1974's Foxy Brown fame) and B-Movie actor Robert Forster off the discarded actor scrapheap. He also casts Robert Deniro as washed-up ex-con Louis Gara and Tarantino staple Samuel L. Jackson as the pony-tailed gun-runner Ordell Robbie. Everyone is at the top of their game here, but it's Forster's Max Cherry that is the most compelling (he garnered a best supporting actor nod for it).

In typical QT fashion, even the soundtrack is homage, this one heavily indebted to soul music, opening with Bobby Womack's Across 110th Street and featuring songs from Bill Withers, The Supremes and Brothers Johnson. Most notable of these is 'Didn't I' by The Delfonics, which is played at 3 different junctures by 3 different characters, with 3 different responses. Tarantino has always taken great pride in the songs used in his films (much like Martin Scorsese before him), and his obsession with the material shows in every frame.

With regard to how Jackie Brown compares to Rum Punch, the differences are very minor. Small subplots involving an injured member of Robbie's entourage and Cherry's ex-wife are omitted, and the romance between Cherry and Brown is much more subtle through QTs lens, which is a nice touch. I'm sure much of this is due to the ease with which these delicate feelings can be portrayed on film compared to the written word. Tarantino has never been one for tact and subtlety, so to see him reign things in a bit here is refreshing. As far as the overarching plot is concerned, Tarantino is smart to remain faithful to Leonard's book, maintaining the tide of double and triple-crosses, and quite frequently using entire pages of dialogue verbatim. It is a testament to Leonard and Tarantino both that the words can transfer effortlessly across mediums, and only serves to make me wants to read more crime writing. Rum Punch is not the first Elmore Leonard book to be adapted for the screen (there have been nearly 20, including Out of Sight and Get Shorty), but in contrast to what I've seen of the others, Jackie Brown offers the perfect meshing of seemingly disparate styles. QT rises to the source material by keeping his stylistic urges in check, while at the same time, cutting scenes out of the book that would appear to be right in his wheelhouse in the interest of pacing. The result is a gritty balance of style and substance, everything you hope for in an film adaptation.

Name That Tune

As MB and MT can attest, my knowledge of Pop Music is virtually peerless. So you could imagine my glee when I came across this little number this afternoon. It's the 100 Song Clip Challenge, and it's pretty self-explanatory. A track consisting of 100 4-second song clips is played, and you have 20 minutes to desperately reallocate childhood memories and other respectable things in your brain to try and uncover the title of each song. You simply type the song title in the box, and if correct, the website will accept it into the correct spot on the list. This is the song here, but you're better off clicking the link above and going to the website directly.

A couple of helpful hints:

No, you can't just type the artist (I tried this an embarrassing amount of times before realizing), but you can pause and restart the song from any point. The total length of the song is 6 minutes and 40 seconds, which gives you approximately 12 seconds per song. Sounds like plenty of time. It's not.

I'd recommend that you try and find some personal space or some headphones for two reasons:

1. Most of the songs are AWFUL and you don't want anyone within earshot to mistakenly assume that you are listening to them for pleasure.


2. More importantly, you'll inevitably find yourself frantically singing (and butchering) the words out loud to try and hotwire your hypothalamus.

I got 64. And am darned proud of it. And if it weren't for my dusty Backstreet Boys recollection it would be a  cool 65. Anyone who beats that is probably cheating.

And if that isn't enough to satisfy your pop-music cortex, there are two more variations, which I will play and destroy as soon as I complete this blog post. They are here and here.

Edit: 58 on #2

Edit 2: 72 on #3

This Week in Indie Heresy

The image above, with the swimming lads and the tambourine headed lady is the cover for Neutral Milk Hotel's 1998 album In The Aeroplane Over The Sea, probably my favorite album of all time. It is beautifully strange yet completely accessible and melodic. I have played every song on my guitar so many times that the chord imprints are permanently emboldened on my fingers. The lyrics and melodies have permeated so far into my consciousness that they regularly bleed into memories and thoughts they have no business existing in. I can extrapolate the origin of most complex emotions back to a verse in one of the songs. If it sounds like I'm gushing, it's because I am. I'll save a complete review for a day when I have a firmer grasp on what makes these eleven songs tick. What this blog post is about is the audacious 17-year-old Madeline Ava, who had the gall to cover the entire album on a ukulele. This is the indie equivalent to remaking Mona Lisa with burger grease. Or Cups of Coffee. Or Legos. The sacrilege is just too much to bear.

All kidding aside, it's pretty neat. Ava completely strips the songs of the orchestration and minutiae we are familiar with, leaving only the lyrics, her wispy voice and some gentle plucking. Its a worthy cover, and from someone who has heard several renditions of these songs, that is not an easy compliment to bestow. 

Download it here.

Cats Rule, Dogs Drool

Truer words were never spoken Sassy.

Dogs are cool, but for my money, cats are the cats ass, as they say (well, as JS says*). Dogs are loyal and eager to please, but you know what dogs, it's not always about you. Sometimes I just want to chill and have a beer and don't need your fat wet head in my lap. And yes, I was planning on eating all of that, and I don't appreciate you making me feel selfish about it. Sometimes (most times) that person at the door is not a homicidal maniac and doesn't warrant 15 minutes of howling and general spazzy behavior. Dogs are clingy, dogs are dumb, and dogs are obnoxious. No one is ever mauled by a cat, and no one ever steps on cat poop on a walk. Cat's also have no interest in crotch identification or indiscriminate humping. Cat's never drag their butts along the floor or shred shoes and furniture with startling efficiency.

Cats are relaxed, cats are calm, cats do whatever the hell they want, and will NOT apologize for it. Sometimes that means you'll step on a hairball and sometimes that means you'll discover a decapitated chipmunk carcass on your front stoop, but them's the breaks. Most times it seems like cats don't care if you live or die, so long as their food bowl is topped off, but then they hop into your lap and purr like a '62 Chevy** and, well, I just go all to mush. Cats can fetch, cat's can be potty trained, cats have class. Cats are as self-sufficient as an ant farm, but have the personality of a primate. They are smart, they are agile, and they are mischievous. Rather than the obnoxious curiosity of dogs that involves peeing on interesting things and doing a butt-sniff doe-si-doe with other dogs, cats can be distracted by a laser pointer for over an hour. Have you ever seen a cat with a fresh sprig of catnip? Probably, it's similar to what a dog does when it encounters another animals fresh feces. Whatever drug is human equivalent to catnip, I need to get me some***.

The best empirical evidence as to the awesomeness of cats is how cats interact with dogs. Sure, most dogs have a solid 60lbs on any cat, but my money is always on the cat. Cats are scrappy. Take this gif for example:



Unassuming stupid dog has no idea what hit him. Now maybe he simply didn't care that the cat was about to maim him, but cats thrive on that shit. I can't tell you how many times I've casually walked through a doorway only to have Maui**** launch at my feet with reckless abandon. Not so much now, since he's old and frail, but in his prime, I had borderline PTSD from his covert ops.

I know the connotation that cat people get (damn you eccentric old women who give other cat lovers a bad name), but I really don't care. When I have my own apartment, I will get a cat, and any girls who give me sideways glances will have to check themselves lest they wreck themselves. For my final piece of evidence, please refer to the gifs below, that I have been spamming SS with over the last week. Case Closed.









*Sorry Janet, I still don't get it.

**That sounds like a loud, muscle-y car to me.

***Probably crack.

****Maui Jumanji Dunn

On Repeat: Broken Social Scene

Broken Social Scene are the word 'dense' personified. They waver from 6 to 19 members at any given time, and while this distinction rings of self-indulgence and brings to mind the cult-like imagery associated with the Polyphonic Spree* and other nonsense, the difference is that the members of Broken Social Scene have no interest in grand orchestral pieces or 12 part harmonies. I'm not saying they don't crank out their fair share of melodies, but theirs are just as likely to come from a looped guitar riff or a cymbal crash as they are to come from the sleepy muddy vocals. If pressed, I would call them Sigur Ros with a stuck accelerator**. Peaks crash as quickly as they are built and careen wildly from one idea to the next with rarely a bridge between them, but never feel disjointed.

It's been 5 long years since Broken Social Scene released their self-titled 3rd LP and during this respite, almost every member has released solo material, from Feist, to Emily Haines, to BSS brainchildren Kevin Drew and Brendan Canning. While each foray had its merits, BSS are truly a band whose sum is greater than its parts, so I was thrilled to hear they would be releasing a new album in 2010. Late last week, the first song off the new album entitled 'World Sick' began popping up around the blogosphere, and within the first 45 seconds of the nearly seven minute opus any rust-related grumbles were soundly extinguished.

Sounding like a distant carnival coming into focus, World Sick establishes its own world quickly with tribal drums and a smooth guitar riff before vocals and another squeaky guitar part pop in. A fierce drum breakdown resets everything, only to cycle through once again, familiar guitar parts surfacing for a moment and then washing away. Much is drenched in reverb but never fails to catch you off guard with a chorus that whallops out of nowhere. So many disparate ideas are crammed into this song, but its a testament to the musicians at hand that it never feels out of control or superfluous. If I may be so bold, a good Broken Social Scene track is like a good Arrested Development episode, never failing to unveil new tricks with every listen. Check 'World Sick' out below (or here).

*Gee Willikers they need to make more horror movies that revolve around cults.

**From a defective floormat, not an electrical problem of course.

Curling

I like Curling. That is to say, I think I like curling. I know next-to-nothing about the rules, how one scores points, or if they're even called points. I liken it to a mid-morning walk through Chinatown. Things smell good and look good, but you want a little more information before you start stuffing your face. Unless it's Dim Sum, because in that case who cares.

I'd be lying if I waxed poetically about the grace and athletic vigor that first drew me into curling. The fact of the matter is, curlers are some of the most fetching athletes at these Olympic games. Maybe it's because they are the only athletes not wearing helmets and pads (figure skaters don't count either, they move too fast and look like they raided a Sears makeup counter).

SS and I watched about an hour of a US vs. England female curling match Saturday evening, and I'll be darned if I didn't make a mental note to google if curling calendars existed (yes, they do). For clarification purposes, that last sentence was facetious, although I just searched for 'curling calendar' to find that link, so which is creepier? I also made a mental note to look up the rules and strategy for curling, which I conveniently found here.

The graphic above is pilfered directly from the link above, but goes a long way in clarifying what had previously seemed to be 'glorified shuffleboard', something I'm sure curlers would give you dirty looks for suggesting. Here is what I learned.

-The stone is made from granite, not marble as I theorized, and not concrete (SS). It weighs between 17-20kg (that's 37-44lbs for you yanks). It makes bowling look like pick-up sticks. Or jacks (no, not those). Or something else effeminate.

-The term 'curling' comes from the 'curl' that the stone's path endures during rotation.

-Teams consist of 4 people. One who 'throws' and three who sweep. The sweepers furiously brush ice away from the stone to control its trajectory. I still have no idea why there are two different colored brushes. I would bet that a lot of retired curlers open up car washes.

-Much like the beloved Bocce' ball that you get drunk and play with Grandpa, only the team closest to the center target scores points, receiving one point for each stone that is closer to the 'button' than the nearest opponents stone.

-The final throw is called 'The Hammer' and is probably just as obnoxious here as it is in shuffleboard. While I'm sure it has finesse up the wazoo, this usually consists of rocketing the stone down the ice and obliterating everyone in the way.

-The game lasts 10 ends (rounds), at which point a winner is called or in the event of a tie, the game heads to 'extra-ends' (c'mon curlers, have a sense of humor, 'dead-ends' is the only logical term).

-Apparently there's a ton of strategy involved and it's very difficult, so SS and my idea of becoming curling sharks or somehow becoming walk-on Olympians may be a bit far-fetched. See the video below (don't mind the terrifying screaming, that's how they communicate).

Most Anticipated Films of 2010

Winter is a dreary time. A time made considerably drearier by the barren film landscape during the first few months of a new year. The much celebrated Oscar season (October-December) gives way to the major studio hemorrhage that is January-March, a dark period where I lose most of my faith in humanity. This is the time when I shack up in my apartment and resolve to watch all the movie's I've been meaning to see. I don't even bother looking at the marquee at the Capitol theatre until Mid-March, it's that bad.

This year is no exception, with abominations like Tooth Fairy* and Dear John** raking in OBSCENE profits, the only glimmer of hope on the horizon coming in the form of the trailers that proceed them. Miraculously, Martin Scorcese's Shutter Island came out this weekend, and it was 50 degrees yesterday, so we may be on the homestretch of this whole winter thing (knock on wood). To celebrate, I'm going to list a few of my most-anticipated films of 2010, in order of release date. Unless otherwise stated, click on the film title to watch the trailer, as I don't want to weigh down the whole blog post with embeds.

Cop Out (trailer may be NSFW) - February 26th

Formerly known as 'A Couple of Dicks'***, this film features Tracy Morgan being Tracy Morgan for 90 minutes. From what I can tell, Bruce Willis plays the straight cop to Tracy's comic foil, with a plot revolving around a missing baseball card, but suffice to say I don't really care. What I do know, is that Tracy will take his shirt off and say some cooky things, and that I will pay for that.

Date Night - April 9th
Tina Fey and Steve Carell are almost certainly the two funniest people on TV, so any film that pairs them as husband and wife is a comedy goldmine. They both have such hilarious deadpan deliveries and awkwardness that will play well in an action-comedy like this.

Iron Man 2 - May 7th
Anyone who says they don't have a crush on Robert Downey Jr, male or female, is a bald-faced liar. He has a playful sarcasm shtick that only he (and maybe Clooney****) can get away with, and just exudes indifference. The first Iron Man was deserving of its critical and box-office success, and with Don Cheadle, Samuel L. Jackson, Mickey Rourke, Scarlett Johansson, Gwyneth Paltrow and Sam Rockwell rounding out the cast, it will likely rival The Dark Knight in number of characters crammed into a film. Looks great.

Inception - July 16th

From Christopher Nolan (director of The Dark Knight, The Prestige, Memento) and featuring Leonardo Dicaprio, Marion Cotillard, Michael Caine, Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Ellen Page, Inception is a Sci-Fi Thriller whose plot has been shrouded in secrecy thus far. The teaser trailer does little to answer any questions, showing snippets of Matrix-inspired gravity-defying stunts and Leo looking rattled. Nolan is one of the best directors working today, so I've seen all I need to see.

Toy Story 3 - July 23rd
I'm not a fan of sequels generally, and I may be in the minority in not being a huge fan of Toy Story 2, but I trust that Pixar has a plot worthy of taking Woody and Buzz out of the toy box for a 3rd go-round. This time, Andy's going to college***** and the toys get donated to a preschool. Chaos ensues, they meet new toys, and formulate an escape plan. The trailer has me a little nervous, but Pixar's trailers are always disappointing. I'm sure it will be awesome and make $300,000,000.

The Social Network - October 15th
The Facebook movie. I should be rolling my eyes through the back of my skull right now, but I'm not. Here's why. The screenplay is written by Aaron Sorkin (West Wing), and it's being directed by David Fincher (Fight Club, Zodiac, Seven). It has Jesse Eisenberg (the Jewish Michael Cera), Justin Timberlake and Rashida Jones (Parks and Recreation). There's no trailer, there's no poster. Sorry. I have no idea what David Fincher is thinking getting involved in something so bubbly (although it's a foregone conclusion that someone will be murdered (or poked to death, lol)), but I can't wait to find out.

The Green Hornet - December 22nd
Again, no trailer or poster. I blogged about this movie a while ago, and while I haven't learned anything more about it in the months since, I am still incredibly excited to see what Michel Gondry does with a superhero film and a superhero budget. Seth Rogen lost a ton of weight to play the Green Hornet, and Christoph Waltz (Hans Landa from Inglorious Basterds) signed on to play another creepy villain, so everything's in it's right place.

Honorable Mentions:
Hot Tub Time Machine -2010's Hangover. Done deal.
Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World - Michael Cera in a beloved comic book adaptation
The Last Airbender (for you SS)

*You're Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson for christ sakes! You've spent the past 5 years delicately modifying your name from The Rock to Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson, finally graduating to Dwayne Johnson and what's the first thing you do? You cash in and you are The Rock all over again. If I wanted to see a muscle-y man doing effeminate things, I'd watch The Pacifier with Vin Diesel.

** I swear, checking boxofficemojo.com today lists Dear John, Valentine's Day, and When In Rome ALL in the Top 10. What is it about European romance that makes otherwise sane women turn their purses upside down? Is it because it's near Valentine's Day and they want to live vicariously through Kristen Bell and Julia Roberts? Tell me what we men need to do to keep these movies from being made. I'll do it.

*** Seriously MPAA? I understand you wanting to shelter our young folks from growing up too fast, but you're barking up the wrong tree editing risque' movie titles. I guess this is to be expected since Kevin Smith's last movie (Zack and Miri Make A Porno) experienced similar censoring with their 'racy' poster.

****Actually this is Clooney's forte. He is the original cool cucumber. RDJ needs to get on his level.

***** Andy going to college??! I don't think so Pixar. I was 10 when Toy Story came out, and Andy was at LEAST 12, which would make him 27 in 2010. I'm sure Andy getting married or Andy filing for unemployment isn't nearly as enticing as a plot device, but shame on you. I'm going to pretend Andy's just dumb and he's a 27 year old freshman. That would also explain why he still plays with his toys.

Old Song Review: Big Star - Thirteen

Time for another great of song review . . .

I actually hadn't heard this song before tonight* but it moved me enough to want to write a post for 'yall. As you might remember, I reviewed Operator, by Jim Croce last time. I got a little guff from the too-trendy-hipster-emo-pants administer of this blog and he sarcastically wondered if I as going to review James Taylor next. I happen to absolutely love the collaboration of Ray Charles and James Taylor on Sweet Potato Pie but I'll save my James Taylor review for another time.

No, this song struck me as I was cleaning dishes and really got to something. I think what really gets me is the teenage angst**. A kid (presumably of thirteen years***) is speaking to this girl he's in love with. It's implied that he's young but I'm not sure whether it's that he's actually talking to her or if the song is more of a soliloquy.

The boy is asking the girl to give him a chance. Maybe they could go to the movies or a dance. Maybe she could stand up to her dad a little more for him****? The song is short and it pretty quickly goes from his entreaties and proclamations to him saying that if it's over he'll leave her alone.

I also think part of the appeal is the vocals and instruments. As far as I can tell Big Star only uses a few guitars and some harmony/backup singing. The effect is lovely and melancholy. The lead singers voice has this sound that's somewhere between a cry and a plea and gives away how hopeless his situation is without evening listening to the message of the lyrics.

The thing that really gets me about the song is the unrequitedness of it. I've read the lyrics a number of times and I agree that it isn't necessarily so such a melancholy song, it doesn't have to end with her rebuffing him that is, but I think between his voice and he ending it's implied. I think that melancholy (there's that word again) feeling is what also got me about Operator so maybe there's a pattern*****. Maybe I'm a sucker for the unrequited love story. I dunno, it's incredibly common but incredibly moving. Maybe we're all little boys in love with girls who don't necessarily share the feeling. Just listen because it's a great old song.



Notes:
*It's currently 11:15pm (way past my bedtime) and I'm writing this post because this song moved me so much. I was up so late because I was cleaning for some guests who are coming tomorrow. One of the guests writes this hilarious blog. This song moved me so much that I grabbed KK and danced in our living room to it.

**The first time I spelled angst A-N-X-T because I'm wicked smaaht.

***I say presumably because the name of the song is "Thirteen." Some of the themes in this song are pretty strong for a thirteen year old. "shake you," "outlaw for my love"? All fairly adult themes for a kid of thirteen. But then again, what do I know about love. Did anyone feel like this about anyone else at thirteen?

****I have definitely been in this situation on numerous ocasions. The parents don't want the kid (your lover) to do something/go somewhere/think something/say something that you really want your lover to do/go/say/think.

*****I'll try to review a more upbeat song next time but the whole point of these posts is to review songs that move me. Hopefully I'm also moved by some old upbeat songs soon.